Birdman

*****

Bravura film-maker Alejandro González Iñárritu is not an obvious fit for comedy. However, Birdman is not obviously comedic. In this, his fifth feature, the director follows the palpably-dark Amores Perros, 21 Grams, Babel and Biutiful with something completely different.

Riggan Thomson (Michael Keaton) is a washed-up Hollywood actor famed for playing the titular Birdman in a successful superhero franchise. Desperate for credibility he mounts a Broadway production of a Raymond Carver story, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. Writing, producing and directing duties - while also starring in the play - means biting off a little bit more than he can chew. A post-rehab daughter assistant (Emma Stone), a difficult co-star (Edward Norton) and a vicious theatre critic (Lindsey Duncan) all help send Riggan into a downward spiral. And I haven’t even mentioned that voice in his head. His disastrous previews, building up to the night’s opening, result in meltdown.

Stylistically, the film rests on one breath-taking central device: it is, effectively, done in one take. It’s not, of course. The magic of today’s technology means the director could fake it. But then Hitchcock didn’t really shoot Rope in one take either. My point being that even with the trickery this is still muscular film-making from Iñárritu. The long takes are extraordinary. Considerable chunks of plot occur within them, pushing the action forward at speed. Incredible technical precision from the actors was required to make it work and everyone one of them delivers convincing performances.

As an actor of some worth (one of whom this reviewer is rather fond) and having donned Batman’s cape and tights, Michael Keaton’s casting is both perfect and deliciously post-modern. Edward Norton is a wonderful nemesis – a nightmarish embodiment of an actor at their worst. In terms of humanity, that is. His acting is good, his personality is not. Zack Galifianakis reins in his comic chops to good effect. Brit actress Andrea Risborough proves further mettle, Naomi Watts displays incredible vulnerability and Emma Stone delivers an absurdly mature performance for one so young.                                                                                                                        

The film is underpinned by a radical, percussive score from Antonio Sanchez. The jazz-style use of only drums and cymbals provides an erratic heartbeat for the film, emphasising Riggan’s increasing levels of anxiety.

Co-writing duties (which helped him, deservedly, win a Golden Globe on Sunday) demonstrate Alejandro González Iñárritu's entrenchment in this work. He's delivered an uncompromising work that's fantastically bonkers. I'm not sure I fully understood it in the end but I still loved every bit of it. Make sure you catch it on the big screen.

Frank

****

To quote the film itself, “How to describe Frank?” Well in a nutshell, Frank is about a guy who unceasingly wears a big papier-mâché head. Needless to say, this will not be to everyone’s taste.

Frank (Michael Fassbender) is the lead singer of Soronnprfbs. Aspiring songwriter Jon (Domhnall Gleeson) crosses paths with the band when they play his hometown. More specifically, when their keyboard player attempts to drown himself Jon steps in to play keys at their next gig. He is then whisked away to rural Ireland to record the album. After enthusiastically promoting Soronnprfbs on social media, John secures a gig at SXSW festival in Austin, Texas.

The film is dedicated to Chris Seivey, the man behind the mask of Frank Sidebottom, the frontman for The Freshies, an incomparable character who made countless appearances on British TV throughout the eighties and nineties. The story is inspired by screenwriter Jon Ronson’s actual experience of playing keys for Sidebottom’s band, after replacing Mark Radcliffe.

For the uninitiated, if you expect to find any details or explanation of Frank Sidebottom you won’t find them here. The entire Frank persona has been given a complete overhaul. There are, for example, no Northern colloquialisms since Frank, in this cinematic incarnation, hails from the USA. There is no mention of the name ‘Sidebottom’. The character is simply ‘Frank’. And thus, the film is a very peculiar concept. However, Frank Sidebottom himself was a very peculiar concept. So it’s actually a fitting tribute.

This is quite a change of tack for Lenny Abrahamson - following the darkness of What Richard Did - and testament to the Irish director’s versatility. This film is consistently funny, relentlessly weird and really rather unique. (And it does have a sprinkling of darkness.) Scoot McNairy adds to his already-very-interesting CV by playing Don, the band’s manager. Maggie Gyllenhall does a lot of scene-stealing as the band’s scary theremin player. Domhnall Gleeson’s performance is a masterstroke. This dull everyman, thrown into a very weird mix, is just as engaging as the lunatics that surround him. Which brings us to Michael Fassbender: a mercurial, recently-Oscar-nominated, and not-unattractive talent. Sticking a big papier-mâché head on him is quite possibly the last thing we’d expect. John Belushi – with The Blues Brothers back in 1980 – experienced some resistance to his eyes being hidden, for the entire film, behind dark glasses. That situation pales in comparison. But like Belushi, Fassbender smashes it out of the park and somehow delivers a very captivating performance.

Frank is peculiar, oddball and exceedingly leftfield. If you’re feeling open-minded and/or tired of a lack of cinematic originality, then look no further. 

We Are the Best!

****

After much darker fare, such as Lilya 4-Ever (2002), Lukas Moodysson returns to exceedingly lighter territory with the brilliantly-titled We Are the Best! (Exclamation mark is included.) This is similar in tone to Together (2000) – a film about life in a seventies commune – and sits well as a companion piece to that. As a great example of constructive nepotism We Are the Best! is adapted from the director’s wife, Coco Moodysson’s graphic novel, Never Goodnight.

It’s Stockholm, 1982. Bobo (Mira Barkhammar) and Klara (Mira Grosin) – who are on the brink of their teens – start a punk band. Everyone tells them punk is dead but they persist. They also have no musical experience. Or instruments. They recruit Hedvig who, although straight-laced and Christian, is an accomplished guitarist. They decide to draw her away from Jesus and re-style her to comic effect. They befriend some boys in another punk band. Romantic entanglements ensue and friendships are pushed to their limits. All the while they deal with the trials of childhood – school sports are torturous and parents prove to be an excruciating embarrassment.

The intoxicating effect of musical discovery when you’re young is captured brilliantly. The girls’ passion for punk and for issues, like the nuclear threat, is endearing. When matters of age and gender get in the way, they plough on regardless with a formidable punk ethos. It portrays the exuberance of youth in all of its messiness and often silliness. Their sloppy, unkempt modus operandi is in itself intrinsically punk. They are also portrayed very realistically as children. Hollywood has a peculiar inclination to often paint youngsters as other-wordly savants trapped in the bodies of children. (As seen played by the likes of Haley Joel Osment and Dakota Fanning.) Here, there is no such nonsense. These kids are kids.

Moodysson’s style is clean, simple and very effective. There is nothing showboating about his direction. It is all so natural, it brings to mind John Cassavetes. As with that legendary director, Moodysson's attention to the acting is palpable - he draws fantastic performances from the girls. The film rests on their shoulders and they impress throughout. The film is very funny too. Maybe don’t expect huge belly laughs but it does deliver a consistent stream of lovely chuckles. It is also touching and warm. We Are the Best! is undeniably feel-good but achieves indie grit through its realism. No whiff of cheese here, I can assure you.

Starred Up

****

Have to admit I was not immediately familiar with the name David Mackenzie. On further investigation I was reminded that he helmed 2011’s highly-original Perfect Sense (do check it out). Starred Up has forced me to sit up and take notice of this talented director. I won’t forget his name again in a hurry.

The title refers to the rare process in which a juvenile delinquent is so problematic that he is ‘Starred Up’ from a young offenders unit to an adult prison. The problem with young Eric Love (Jack O’Connell) is his unrelenting proclivity for violence. He is duly processed into the far-heavier-duty prison world and continues to fight both the system and its inmates like it was his true calling. The kicker here being that he’s been assigned to the same wing as his father, Neville Love (Ben Mendelsohn).

Striking a great balance between visceral thrills and thoughtful drama it’s powerful stuff. The film brilliantly captures a young buck’s instinct to lock horns. Eric does little in the way of thinking - he dives in fists first with little thought about the consequences. The transfer is like a promotion for him and he wears it like a badge of honour. This is a new and interesting spin on a tale set in lock-up. I always love the unpalatable (and often ingenious) minutia of a good prison flick and this has plenty. We’re shown in fine detail how easy it is to make a deadly shiv with just a cigarette lighter, a safety razor and a toothbrush. These kind of touches are fascinating and downright nasty.

The onus is very much on O’Connell and he impresses throughout. (He also looks like he’s done some serious working out to cut an authentic prison physique.) I was an instant fan of Ben Mendelsohn after seeing 2010’s Animal Kingdom and here the Australian actor more than convinces as a lifer London thug. Rupert Friend delivers as posho-out-to-do-good prison therapist. The group therapy scenes are unique for their intensity and unlike anything I’ve seen on screen - they involve a series of ferocious stand-offs with an intelligent commentary by each of the participants.

Mackenzie clearly has a nose for a good script. Jonathan Asser takes sole screenwriting credit. I don’t know what Asser’s background is but suspect he’s rubbed up against some right wrong’uns in his time and he’s put that experience to great use. Either that or he’s a master of research. The authenticity of the dialogue is terrifying and the writer displays a very cutting wit.

The film is not without its faults. There are a couple of slightly duff performances – from the prison staff - but thankfully they don’t feature too heavily. (I should add, the cons themselves are all superb.) However, the raw power of the film makes up for any such minor imperfections. Director Mackenzie gives us something tough, lurid and uncompromisingly British. He’s also achieved tremendous production value with a £2million budget. It’s both fantastically entertaining and a thought-provoking watch.

Highly recommended.

Blue Ruin

****

Once in a while a film comes out of nowhere that makes an unexpectedly big impression. This is one such film. Blue Ruin is a taught little thriller that gripped me from the off. Much of its power comes from keeping things simple. The tension is amped up considerably due to the lean narrative. It follows a sequence of dramatic events within a narrow timeline, and all in excruciating detail.

The ragged, heavily-bearded Dwight (Macon Blair) has nothing. He sleeps in his car, lives off junk from the beach in Delaware, and does the odd bit of breaking and entering. He is unexpectedly informed by the authorities that the man who killed his parents is due for release from jail. And with that, he journeys to Maryland in his battered Pontiac Bonneville preparing to become the unlikeliest of assassins.

In this, his second feature, writer and director Jeremy Saulnier delivers an unconventional thriller free from cliché. His startling original script is brought to realisation with fine precision. Saulnier says he set out to strike a balance between arthouse and genre piece, and he certainly fulfilled that remit. The first act is largely silent and has a beautiful melancholy. From then on, the dramatic thrust increases considerably. The action, when it happens, appears in short incendiary bursts. It works as both thoughtful indie and credible genre flick (and hopefully it will appeal to fans of both). Saulnier employed a Kickstarter campaign to complete the film – and the budgetary constraints lend credence to necessity being the mother of invention. Said invention brings to mind the Coens' debut Blood Simple. As with that film, Blue Ruin’s strengths lie in atmosphere and a damn fine screenplay.

Revenge is a classic cinematic more and one of which I’m very fond. Blue Ruin gives us a great take on that. The foundations of Dwight's cunning springs from his homelessness, which is such a fresh concept. Increasingly out of his depth, his survival depends on it. His demeanour – as the action progresses - becomes increasingly that of a wounded animal. The raw survival instinct associated with such a creature keeps him going and makes for a fantastically tense watch. The film centres on this wonderful, understated performance from Macon Blair - himself a childhood friend of the director. It’s a star-making turn and we are certainly going to see a lot more of the actor. Another nod must go to Devin Ratray. Fresh from his entertaining turn in Nebraska, he provides a touch of much-needed comicality amidst the excitement.  

A film like this makes me so excited that there are still stories out there to be told in new and interesting ways, and that there are film-makers, like Jeremy Saulnier, with the guts and determination to deliver.

Make sure you catch it on the big screen for full impact.

Dallas Buyers Club

****

Here Matthew McConaughey loses 46 lbs for the role. Some may see this as Oscar-baiting. Well, I see it as the guy doing an extraordinary job. And then some. He looks fantastically awful throughout and the film reaps huge benefits from this commitment. It is not simply McConaughey’s film, I should add. Director Jean-Marc Vallée does an exceptional job and the writers Craig Borten and Melissa Wallack deliver a cracking script.

The year is 1985. Electrician, rodeo cowboy and party animal Ron Woodroof is diagnosed with AIDS and given 30 days to live. Refusing to accept the diagnosis, Woodroof sets about finding alternatives to survive. Questioning the hospital’s policies, especially their use of AZT - a drug that damages all cell life - he seeks help from a doctor in Mexico. He then buys uncontrolled (and far-more-effective) substances from across the border and distributes them to AIDS patients in the US. Woodroof’s laser focus on drug research combined with his street smarts make him a tough opponent of the FDA (Food and Drug Administration). And along the way he is forced to confront his rampant homophobia.

Dallas Buyers Club has a heady atmosphere. The sex and drug scenes involving this epicurean cowboy have a lurid tenseness. It’s refreshing to see hedonistic excess not confined to the Eastern or Western edges of the USA. (A lot of that obviously happens in the middle, too.) Director Jean-Marc Vallée directs with aplomb. He throws everything at this film - it is alternately humorous and horrific - but ties it all together with an evenly-toned work. Woodroof’s arc is redemptive. Suddenly a victim of the ‘gay plague’ he warms to those in a similar morass (namely gay people) and redresses his previously-held bigotry. But it’s not sugar-coated. While supplying incredible help to those with HIV he still retains his inexorable Lonestar Outlaw persona.

It has a wonderful odd-couple pairing at the film’s centre - namely that between the homophobic Woodroof and the transgender Rayon (Jared Leto). As well as plenty of pathos there is much comedy to be found in this double-act. McConaughey is marvellous in the role. His unrelenting swagger in the face of such extreme adversity makes for a great watch. And the film’s rock ‘n roll ethos makes it one of the coolest ‘Issue Movies’ of all time.

All Is Lost

****

Following the extremely wordy (and superb) Margin Call JC Chandor proves his versatility with a near-wordless film. All is Lost is astonishing in a number of aspects - the absence of dialogue, the boldness of the story's simplicity, and a muscular performance from septugenarian Robert Redford. Simply credited as 'Our Man', Robert Redford battles nature all alone as his yacht gets into serious trouble somewhere in the Indian Ocean. The situation grows increasingly worse and, as the film's spectacularly-bleak title suggests, things do not look good. Drawing on every ounce of his resourcefulness and seamanship, Our Man never gives up. I came to this with more than a few preconceived ideas. The title itself felt like a giveaway and almost prevented me from actually watching the film. (I couldn't help thinking I knew what was going to happen.) However, every single second of this made for thrilling viewing. The writer-director keeps things fantastically alive. Just when you think it can’t get any worse it does. Each and every one of the curve balls thrown at Our Man surprises and astounds. The scale of the spectacle is much grander than I’d expected too. The thrills and spills provided certainly allow this to be described as an ‘action film’. (It’s just one with brains.) Redford is phenomenal in the role. Internal performance has been key throughout his career. His star-making role of The Sundance Kid was a quiet one (in contrast to Newman's verbose Butch Cassidy) and this also brings to mind Jeremiah Johnson, in which he plays a man also very much alone, out in the wilds. His performance in All is Lost - following a long and lustrous career - is the zenith of that internalisation. There are no tricks or winks to emphasise the actor's presence. (And no talking to himself à la John McClane.) He's just phenomenally and authentically there, which makes for such engaging viewing. The role forces so many physical demands on Redford that, admittedly, there may not have been a huge amount of acting necessary. Single-handedly sailing the stricken vessel for real (and all the while soaked to the skin) clearly worked as a motivational tool for the actor. With the current state of cinema it's amazing that it actually got made. If this is a reaction against the infantilisation of Hollywood then long may this trend continue. 

12 Years A Slave

*****

Director Steve McQueen progresses through an increasingly-strong body of work in leaps and bounds. Although this is his most conventional film to date he has in no way compromised himself. 12 Years a Slave proves quite the opposite.

It's 1841. Solomon Northup is a free man - a musician, in Saratoga Springs, New York State. He has a wife and two children. Duped by a pair of strangers, he is lured to Washington DC, subsequently kidnapped and then sold into slavery. He becomes the property of a series of slavers as he is shipped further South. He does all he can to survive the ensuing horrors and to get back to his family, over the eponymous twelve years.

It is a harrowing tale - the stuff of nightmares - and makes for ugly and disgusting viewing. The film is filled with unimaginable behaviour. Any form of resistance to slaving is met with violence. The whip is casually used as any other farm tool. The slaves are not treated like livestock they are livestock. With all civil liberties robbed from them, simple private acts such as disrobing to wash, are watched over. The casual frequency of overseeing such nudity, for ablutions and at slave markets, is particularly vile. A woman is separated from her two children in a quick, simple monetary exchange. While racism is, admittedly, still endemic the extremes in the film are unfathomable. It is almost like a warped, dystopian science-fiction.

It’s a dream cast but doesn’t at any point feel like ‘stunt casting’. Each and every one of the actors - whether noted glitterati such as Paul Giamatti, Benedict Cumberbatch and Michael Fassbender or talented newcomers such as Lupita Nyong'o - gives a thoroughly committed performance. Even an actor with the star wattage of Brad Pitt (who also produced the film) makes his small role so authentic that it would take a lot of cynicism to find his appearance distracting.

It's muscular film-making from McQueen but not without achingly-beautiful detail: the waves created by a paddle steamer are enchanting, sunsets are seen but only through treetops as if from the slave quarters, corners of the plantation without much of a view. The dialogue is incredible. It drips with authenticity but is never staid or stilted (as so often occurs in period drama). Adapted from Solomon Northup's book screenwriter John Ridley delivers lean, punchy prose.

While it's a tough watch it's fantastically rewarding. As a white, straight, Anglo-Saxon male in the 21st Century it's takes some imagination to consider what it's like to be a victim of prejudice. This is an appropriately vivid and visceral illustration of prejudice and one we really should expose ourselves to. Considering the pain these people went through, simply sitting in a darkened auditorium for a couple of hours is hardly a stretch.The experience of watching reinforced how lucky I am, made me grateful for a painless upbringing and reminded me how very easy my current situation is in the world. There is white guilt involved in the viewing experience. And so there certainly should be. It shines a big, bright light on the systematic abuse that we - the US (and the UK) - should be forever shamed by.

The Wolf of Wall Street

****
Bombastic, bold and ballsy - this is not for the faint-hearted. Sporting a well-deserved 18 Certificate this shies away from none of the excesses in the story of stockbroker Jordan Belfort. Sex and drugs sit at the forefront in this tale of corporate crime. Hallelujah! In an era dominated by films marketed to children, films based on toys, and dilution of content to be granted wimpy 12A/PG13 Certificates, we've got a large-scale ($100 million-budgeted) film for grown-ups on our hands. And the great thing is, it's doing really well at the box office. (It sailed past $120 million very early on and is yet to open in a large number of territories.)

Young buck Jordan Belfort (Leonardo DiCaprio) joins a large Wall Street firm in 1987. Mentored by boss Mark Hanna (Matthew McConaughey) he's encouraged to embrace the superabundance involved in stockbroking - namely sex and drugs. Before Belfort can make an impression Black Monday strikes and he loses his job. He then works in a Long Island boiler room selling 'penny stocks' - shares for smaller companies but involving a far-heftier percentage for the broker. Making serious inroads he uses this model to take things into the bigger leagues and forms the deceptively-legit-sounding firm of Stratton Oakmont, fronted by a team of oddball buddies. They go on to make obscene amounts of money but not without drawing attention to the FBI.

You know in Goodfellas when Henry Hill breaks the fourth wall and starts talking to camera at the end? Well, this picks up where that left off - Belfort (Leonardo DiCaprio) starts rabbiting at us, the viewer, very early on in a similar vein. On paper, I'd say that would have looked like a very bad idea but Scorsese smashes it out of the park. The effect is hypnotic and works brilliantly. Belfort's voice-over leads us through the entire film, making us - the audience - less observer more participant in the mayhem that ensues.

Though tense and taught, the film is incredibly funny. It is spectacularly un-PC and therein lies much of the comicality. While Scorsese may never have made an all-out comedy he has a strong history of weaving drollery into the dramatic. And here, he turns things up to 11. A scene involving Quaalude-overload is uproarious, with DiCaprio delivering a breath-taking performance of physical comedy.

In the on-going, phoenix-like 'McConnaissance' Matthew McConaughey makes a big impression in a small role. He displays a great knack for comedy and it's startling - what with his bona fide movie star charisma - that he owns this part of a character actor. It makes me eagerly anticipate every single one of his future roles. Jonah Hill completely inhabits the portrayal of a reprobate, bottom-feeder. He really does act, without relying on any of his funny guy schtick (of which, it should be noted, I'm also a big fan). Not sure he'll actually win the Best Supporting Actor Oscar but it's a well-deserved nomination. Respect to the Academy for paying attention. Margot Robbie supplies a huge whallop of sex appeal and proves herself deft at the drama. She’s one to watch.

The film has received more than a few accusations of glorifying this solid gold world. DiCaprio has, quite rightly, described the film as a "cautionary tale". Not once did I want to be any single one of these people or have any of their lives. They are shown up, throughout, to be vile, pernicious, money-grubbing scum. In short, a bunch of dickheads who get what’s coming to them.

Powder Room

***
In a dead-end job and unlucky in love, Sam (Sheridan Smith) is having a “quarter life crisis”. She meets up with an old university friend, Michelle (Kate Nash) who she’s been stalking on Facebook. Michelle brings along her friend Jess (Oona Chaplin) with whom she runs a fashion blog in Paris. Sam is overawed by the pair’s success and supposed dream lives. Desperate to compete she creates a fictional life of her own, telling them she is a successful lawyer and in a great relationship. Already struggling to keep atop of this web of lies, her tight circle of friends then turn up unexpectedly. This arrival threatens to blow her cover. The rest of the night involves Sam’s attempts to keep the two groups apart. And all pretty much confined to one central location – the ladies toilet.

Using a single location has been put to great use in a number of successful films – Twelve Angry Men, and Rope did it rather brilliantly. As did Kevin Spacey’s underrated directorial debut, Albino Alligator. This is notably a different beast from the aforementioned but the same rules apply. MJ Delaney shows directorial flair, embracing the single location, keeping the space interesting and cinematic. Never at any point does the film feel like a play or that it ought to be on the stage. NB: The original script of the play – what was essentially a series of vignettes – was given a significant overhaul.

You have to admire Powder Room’s chutzpah. Sex and drugs and rock ‘n roll are all dealt with in a frank and unglamorous manner. It doesn’t shy away from bodily functions either. All the gory details of a messy night out are portrayed with brazen honesty. It’s all very British too and that adds to both the humour and the realism. Colloquialisms abound and this is rarely a bad thing. When filmmakers consider their audience too carefully when crafting a script, the resulting work often ends up diluted and anodyne. So this is certainly not the case with Powder Room. The familiarity of it all (to those who know this world) should prove to be Powder Room’s main appeal.

It helps that it is directed by a woman, MJ Delaney and adapted by Rachel Hirons from Natasha Sparkes play When Women Wee. The dialogue and general voice of the film feels authentically female. Some obvious clichés are nicely avoided. The loose ends don’t all end up perfectly tied and there’s a very funny MDMA scene without being preachy about drug use. Sadly, a musical number at the end very almost ruins the film. The switch in tone is too incongruous. It’s unnecessary and feels like a forced attempt to up the feel-good factor. There are some big laughs in the film and not all of the crass variety. There’s some neatly-observed humour.

It has a great central performance from Sheridan Smith. She proves to be averse at both the comedic aspects required of her and the more dramatic. She is a likeable presence on screen and brings much pathos to the role amidst all the rude and crude goings-on.

Admittedly, this won’t be to everyone’s taste. It would be easy to be mean about Powder Room. Sure, the film – generally speaking – is not subtle but it’s a lot of fun and it’s great to see the girls giving as good as the boys. It’s wild, outrageous and gross-out. In this respect, it struck me how there is a huge, un-tapped, young, female audience out there. This is not to say men won’t enjoy it. (I did.) It may not set the theatrical box office alight but I predict it will have a healthy life on home viewing formats. 

Closed Circuit

**

No one could accuse Closed Circuit of not being current. It captures key fears in this day and age: international terrorism and its connected shady government dealings. It is a great pity that the film is so lifeless.

A bomb goes off in London, annihilating Borough Market and killing a large number of people. A suspect, Farroukh Erdogan (Dennis Moschitto) is apprehended and preparations are made for the high-profile trial. Erdogan’s lawyer dies suddenly and a new defence attorney, Martin Rose (Eric Bana) takes his place. Due to classified material required as evidence, the government appoints an additional defence lawyer - a Special Advocate, Claudia Simmons-Howe (Rebecca Hall). Rose and Simmons-Howe once had an affair and are forced to keep it secret so as not to jeopardise the case. As the trial progresses, the pair uncover increasingly-sinister information. It is not long before a government conspiracy is discovered.

The film starts quite well. The initial explosion is directed in a unique and different way – seen from multiple closed circuit cameras, splitting the screen. The every-day banality of the victims’ behaviour in the build-up to the event makes for a chilling watch. There are some nice surveillance touches which certainly feel authentic. The underhandedness of the intelligence agencies, to get a result by any means, is decidedly creepy.

The central conceit, on which the film rests – Rose and Simmons-Howe’s romantic history threatening to disrupt the case – is a dismal and unexciting plot device. The eternally peeved-off pair regret the affair simply because it’s affecting their work. Not the sexiest set-up to re-ignite the flames of passion. Of course, those flames are re-ignited, but to little cinematic effect. Both the leads are hugely unlikeable. The only redeeming feature in each of them is a commitment to their work. Hall is unpleasantly frosty throughout and the Australian Bana is a horrible toff (with a questionable plummy accent).

The film is held back by expositional dialogue. There is so much information, leadenly conveyed, that the human story is engulfed by it. It impedes the characterisation too. While these facts and figures may push the action forward it does little to flesh out the characters. Most lines sound like recitations from a law book.

There is a top notch cast but an astounding number of performances miss the mark. The talented likes of Ciarán Hinds, Julia Stiles, Anne-Marie Duff and, most notably, Eric Bana all fail to deliver. The director even manages to elicit a bad performance from Jim Broadbent. Kenneth Cranham (as the judge) is an exception, as is Riz Ahmed who plays a sinister agent. That, sadly, is not enough to save the film. It is flatly directed by John Crowley. As well as the performances lacking pizzazz so does the courtroom jousting and any action involved. It all descends into an underwhelming climax. There is no visible attempt at a cinematic style. The result feels less like a film, more like any generic TV drama.

Enough Said

**** 

In this her fifth feature, writer and director Nicole Holofcener brings us a good-humoured and extremely likeable tale of a couple and their surrounding relationships. This is not to say it’s a rose-tinted view. The darker and more unpleasant aspects of love are also explored but its general mood is one of tenderness and warmth.

Eva (Julia-Louis-Dreyfuss) is a single parent who is dreading the imminent departure of her teenage daughter, when she starts college. Eva works as a masseuse on the Westside of Los Angeles. At a party, she meets two people separately – poet Marianne (Catherine Keener) and Albert (James Gandolfini) whose daughter, similarly, is soon leaving for college. Eva takes Marianne on as a client and they quickly become friends. Eva starts dating Albert and that look promising. She then soon discovers that Marianne and Albert were previously married.

Enough Said explores a number of scenarios in modern family life – at least some of which will undoubtedly be familiar to audiences. It's deals with them sweetly but without being syrupy. It brilliantly captures the nuance of relationship interactions, good and bad. Moments of intimacy are played with an easy naturalism by a first-rate cast making it simultaneously funny and realistic. There are some big laughs to be had and all in a very smart vein. The combination of writing, direction and delivery of lines result in a perfect storm of comedy.

The performances are impeccable. Julia Louis-Dreyfuss displays comic chops that we all knew she had. Further than that, she breathes dramatic life into her character, making Eva a lot more than just a conduit for jokes. This is James Gandolfini’s penultimate screen appearance. While Tony Soprano had a soft side (brilliantly displayed by the late actor) he always remained the sociopath. Here, Gandolfini plays a straightforwardly nice guy (not without faults, mind) and it’s a lovely performance. The two leads share a nice chemistry. Solid support is given by Toni Collette, Ben Falcone and all the younger cast members, notably newcomer (and internet fashion guru) Tavi Gevinson. The surrounding ties make for a fascinating watch. Eva’s close relationship with her daughter’s best friend Chloe (Gevinson) is a quirky side story.

The good and bad in people is put under scrutiny here. The imperfection of humans, and the messiness of their relationships, certainly makes entertaining viewing and is almost celebrated. The film has a gentle charm. It also has a lot of heart. Enough Said feels like bona fide auteurism. Nicole Holofcener clearly possesses a supreme knowledge of the characters/scenarios and her script-to-screen execution is beautifully realised.

Escape Plan

**

Sly’s been there before (in Lock Up and in Tango and Cash) and now he’s back doing hard time. But on this occasion, he’s there on purpose. Heading an only-in-the-movies security firm used by the US government to test its toughest federal prisons, Ray Breslin (Sylvester Stallone) is a master escape artist. If there are any cracks in the system he’s the guy who can find them. With a false identity and criminal backstory, Breslin poses as Spanish terrorist Portos. He allows himself to be captured and then sequestered in a unique hi-tech, and supposedly inescapable, prison nicknamed ‘The Tomb’. (Formerly known as The Tomb, this was re-titled thus condescending audiences with a name that can mean nothing other than, THIS FILM IS ABOUT A PRISON BREAK. The poster image of Sly and Arnie sat in adjacent cells was clearly not enough of a clue for audiences.) Once inside, Breslin befriends Rottmayer (Arnold Schwarzenegger) and they join forces to break free.

The film starts well with an inventive prison break displaying Breslin’s talent and setting things up nicely for the big one. Unfortunately, ‘The Tomb’ itself is spectacularly underwhelming. The glass cells look interesting enough but much of the production design is woeful. Anyone who’s watched Oz knows that a modern prison relies on bare minimalism. In Escape Plan there are swathes of extraneous hardware everywhere, all screaming out to be appropriated as weaponry or escape implements. It also looks rather cheap. The action itself is ho-hum. I don’t think we can blame director Mikael Håfström. He’s not without talent. He displayed imagination and resourcefulness with 1408. Escape Plan’s key problem is a duff script, lacking in so much invention that make prison breaks compelling. It’s so unoriginal that a key reveal is lifted from Face/Off.

Sadly, the dream pairing of the two action icons is not exploited sufficiently. The only thing going for the film is the nostalgia element. But alas, the mere sight of Arnie and Sly sharing screen time is far less than thrilling. It’s the movie equivalent of a Rolling Stones album post-1981. For both stars, the physicality was a huge part of their screen personas. Here however, the muscles are kept discreetly from view. With both Arnie and Sly rapidly approaching 70 this is probably a good thing that the shirts stay on throughout. Instead, they are required to rely more on their acting ability. (Of which neither were ever particularly renowned.) So between the bursts of action what we have is simply a couple of big lumps mangling dialogue. It results in something tired and a little bit depressing. There just seems very little point in any of it.

The two stars are supported by some decent acting talent - Amy Ryan and Vincent D’Onofrio are on Breslin’s team, Jim Caviezel chews scenery as the evil warden and Sam Neill really slums it in a tiny role as the prison doctor. They are also supported by some less-than-decent talent. Vinnie Jones makes little impact as a sadistic guard and charisma vacuum, Curtis ‘50 Cent’ Jackson is out-acted by the furniture.

There’s nothing wrong with action veterans staying in the genre. Clint Eastwood has proved time and again that it’s possible, but he always plays his age. Escape Plan makes little acknowledgement of Arnie and Sly’s antediluvian status. If you inserted say, Jason Statham and The Rock into the respective leads you wouldn’t need to change a single word in the script. (And the movie would probably have been a lot more fun.) It doesn’t bring to mind the two stars’ heyday, more the straight-to-video cannon of Jean-Claude Van Damme or even Dolph Lundgren. If you enjoyed The Expendables or The Last Stand you’ll probably get a kick out of this. But really, you’d have a lot more fun re-watching Tango and Cash.

Alan Partridge: Alpha Papa

****

At long last Steve Coogan brings his comic creation to the big screen and succeeds in hilarious fashion. Though the central conceit – a siege at North Norfolk Digital – upgrades Alan’s story to an intentionally-more cinematic outing, the action stays firmly in Norfolk. It’s an outlandish storyline but hey, this is comedy and it’s certainly not an incongruous gimmick like a holiday abroad for the entire cast. The Partridge Universe is thus expanded while staying close and very true to its roots.

North Norfolk Digital has been taken over by a large conglomerate and been rebranded as the more youth-aimed ‘Shape’. A victim of its restructuring, disgruntled DJ Pat Farrell (Colm Meaney) comes back to the station armed and takes everyone hostage. Alan Partridge (Steve Coogan) is recruited by the police to assist in the negotiations.

The simplicity of the story is key to its success. The action surrounds one main location - the radio station – and its sheer lack of glamour is used to splendid comic effect. Nakatomi Plaza this is not. The mores of the siege genre are followed to the T (negotiation through bullhorns, media circus etc) but in a quirky and exquisitely Partridge manner.

Alan Partridge’s shortcomings are legion: he’s bigoted, shallow, egotistical and selfish, to name just a few. The film fleshes out that persona, but revealing (even more so) that he’s only human. His awkwardness is intrinsically English and his behaviour, while not entirely forgivable, is understandable. Well, sort of. Coogan is wonderful in the role. You feel sorry for Alan but accept who he is and you’ll always end up rooting for him.

Declan Lowney has a long and impressive CV (Father Ted is just one of the great TV comedies he’s directed) and he’s worked with Coogan before on the little-seen-but-rather-lovely Cruise of the Gods. He draws great performances from all and exacts devastating comic timing. The always-superb Colm Meaney brings bona fide Hollywood heft to the table and is alternately funny and scary. Solid support comes from Partridge regulars Lynn Benfield, Simon Key, Simon Greenall, Nigel Lindsay and Phil Cornwell, along with an effective host of new blood. Writing duo, twins Neil and Rob Gibbons reinvigorated Partridge with Mid Morning Matters which established the film’s foundation and, I imagine, helped bring this to fruition. Here they supply a fine, economically-scripted and stupendously funny cinematic outing.

It’s peculiar sharing the normally-confined-to-your-home experience of Alan Partridge with an audience who will, undoubtedly, be laughing their heads off so I cannot recommend this enough. NB: While not as earth-shaking as some of Marvel’s recent output, it’s worth staying a while as the credits roll.

The Lone Ranger

**

While only just released in the UK and still yet to open in a number of other territories The Lone Ranger is looking to lose Disney - by its own admission - $190 million. The film-makers have been quoted as blaming the critics. If I may be included in that critical fraternity, it’s flattering that they think we wield such power. There have been more than a few critically-lambasted stinkers that have made pots of cash. Transformers: Dark of the Moon and Titanic were not noted for kind appraisals yet they still made over a billion dollars, as did two execrable Pirates of the Caribbean sequels. Of the latter, that same team - star Johnny Depp, director Gore Gorbinski and producer Jerry Bruckheimer - reunite here to produce a work of inconceivably-less effect. It’s not the critics who are to blame for its failure, it’s the sheer flat-footedness of the film.

Lawyer John Reid (Armie Hammer) is a deputised Texas Ranger who unwillingly teams up with Native American Tonto (Johnny Depp). They step outside the law to avenge his brother who died at the hands of stone killer Butch Cavendish (William Fichtner).

The Lone Ranger himself is a figure of fun – inept and silly – whereas the put upon Tonto is the brains of the duo. That’s a lovely dynamic, seen to exceedingly-greater effect with, for example, the far-smarter Gromit ever propping up the hapless Wallace. The Tonto part does work but the film tries to offer John Reid pathos and dignity when he’s nothing more than a clown. In this respect, it’s very uneven in tone. His story swings clumsily from a serious man out for revenge, winning back his true love to a fool, hopelessly out of his depth and incapable of change.

Armie Hammer is not bad in the role, it’s just badly written and due to the writing (not the actor) he’s an unlikeable hero. He does his best with the material and I hope this doesn’t put a kibosh on his career because the man has talent – he has comic chops and dramatic presence. Depp is really quite brilliant, though. The level of commitment in his performance makes me very sad because he simply deserved a better film. His Tonto offers some glittering nuggets of humour amidst this big pile of dirt. It doesn’t help that he’s the sidekick, playing second fiddle to someone we care two hoots about. But when he’s on screen he is rather wonderful, giving a consistently-comical performance as the put upon Comanche in a white man’s world. And, ingeniously, he pulls it off without being in the least bit patronising.

At two and a half hours I immediately assumed it to be overlong for a family film. However, Mary Poppins runs just ten minutes shorter and, like Mary herself, that film is “practically perfect in every way”. It’s the lack of fun in The Lone Ranger that makes it so bloated. For all its big action set-pieces there is much tiresome, humourless plodding. So its length will certainly exceed the attention span (and popcorn consumption) of younger viewers.

Only God Forgives

**

You'd be forgiven for expecting Drive 2: Bangkok Boogaloo. However, this is a very different beast from Nicolas Winding Refn and Ryan Gosling's previous collaboration.

Julian (Ryan Gosling) is a drug smuggler in Bangkok operating behind the veneer of a Thai boxing gym. As a result of his vile behaviour, scumbag brother Billy (Tom Burke) meets a grisly end. Julian accepts the consequences of his actions but their mother Crystal (Kristin Scott Thomas) seeks vengeance on corrupt cop Chang (Vithaya Pansringarm).

Sounds exciting, right? Alas, the film is painfully dull. It's all very attractive, mind. The beautifully-lit Thai locations are richly bathed in colour. Crisp neon hangs against endless deep reds. There's also great camera work involving some very sexy tracking shots. The entire piece is an exercise in stylish flourish but it’s seriously lacking in substance. The absence of a solid script makes the rudderless direction acutely self-conscious. This provides plenty of unintentional laughs. The supposedly profound comes across as plain silly.

An otherworldly atmosphere is achieved by the director but that spell is often broken by cringe-inducing lines of dialogue. For a film without a great deal of talking, much of the dialogue is fantastically klunky. In terms of writing, the director has gained more success through collaboration. (And Drive was scripted entirely by Hossein Amini, adapting from James Sallis’ book.) Here, Winding Refn takes a sole screenplay credit which, I believe, speaks volumes. The timing has a lot to be desired too and I don't think you can blame the editor. It actually feels like a first-time director finding their feet. As a result, I found the whole thing extremely daft and incredibly boring.

One of the few things the film shares in common with Drive is the bursts of eye-watering violence. Winding Refn executes these moments with proficiency and great relish. On more than one occasion this softy reviewer was struggling to keep his eyes on screen.

Kristin Scott Thomas does have a few good lines and, as a result, steals the show. It's an impressive performance as a very different kind of ice queen. A key issue is the Gosling role. I don't mind characters not having an arc but the problem with this protagonist is that you are offered scant reason for everything he does. As a result, the film’s message is very confused. 

In an industry of endless derivation I admire the director’s intention to create a different commodity. In that respect he has succeeded. Only God Forgives is unique in its peculiarity but it’s deeply flawed.

Behind the Candelabra

****

Shame on all you studios for passing and congratulations to smarter backers HBO, who picked this up. As if we didn’t need further evidence that we’re in a golden age of television, this lends even more dazzle to that credo. Here in the UK - where it has been granted a cinema release - Behind the Candelabra has been doing very respectable business. Possessing a lot of elements that Oscar so loves, it could also have basked in some awards glory. Like Tarantino, biopics are probably this reviewer’s least favourite genre but this particular one is a real riot. One thing it isn’t, as more than one Hollywood exec remarked, is “too gay”. You might equally argue that this look at Liberace is not gay enough.

Rather than attempting to show his entire life, or even career, the story focuses on the relationship with young lover, Hollywood animal trainer Scott Thorson (Matt Damon). It starts in 1977 and Liberace (Michael Douglas) is in the middle of a residency at Vegas. He twice-nightly wows straight crowds with his glittering showmanship. In his performance we see a supremely-honed talent giving the audience a lot more than just bright, shiny things (and there are a lot of bright, shiny things in this film). Following one of his shows Scott rapidly becomes his lover, is hired as an assistant and then moves in. He finds himself increasingly stifled and his trophy status becomes painfully clear when Liberace insists he undergo plastic surgery to resemble his younger self. All done under the careful tutelage of Dr Jack Startz (a hilariously-nipped-and-tucked Rob Lowe). So far so creepy. Other indulgences send Scott on a further downward spiral.

It shines a big, bright light on all of Liberace’s excesses and does so cleverly. It pokes gentle fun but never in a mean-spirited way. Even Liberace recognised the absurdity of his lifestyle (“Too much of a good thing…. is wonderful!”) and the film evokes that same attitude.

Douglas is incredible in the role. The performance could have descended into cliché in lesser hands but, drenched in high camp, he makes Liberace human and very real. Matt Damon delivers a performance so un-flashy it would be easy to start taking the man’s talent for granted. Neglecting to rely on any thespy tricks, he’s just brilliantly and quite simply there. Soderbergh’s direction is appropriately workmanlike. With so much gaudiness on screen there’s little need for directorial flare. Richard LaGravenese’s script (adapted from Scott Thorson’s book) is straightforwardly-plotted. Skipping through an entire life would have denied so much depth. The decision to focus on a specific era allows time and energy to be devoted to detail. It’s an effective and healthy trend and one that really works. This approach shows conventional ‘birth-to-death’ biopics up to be unrealistic in their ambition. It also avoids the need for multiple actors in roles and/or too much prosthetic make-up. Not only do we get a deeper experience it’s all the more realistic.

If you can still catch it on the big screen, I highly recommend it. Seeing it with an audience is a hoot and it’s the way Liberace would have wanted it.

Welcome to the Punch

***
Writer/director Eran Creevy takes a huge leap - from the grungy, micro-budgeted Shifty - to this slick, attractive action flick. 

Detective Max Lewinsky (James McAvoy) remains hot on the heels of the elusive Jacob Sternwood (Mark Strong) and is given a second chance to take down the master criminal when he is forced to return to London.

There's a strong Brit cast: Andrea Riseborough, Daniel Mays, David Morrisey, Peter Mullan and Johnny Harris all lend excellent support. The ubiquitous Mark Strong once again proves he can do no wrong. Sadly, the weak link is lead James McAvoy. His dubious, irksome cockney accent doesn't help. Why on earth couldn't he have just been Scottish? (NB: There are a lot of Scottish coppers in the Met and the accent lends itself well to being a) authoritative and b) tough.) And I hate to be short-ist but his diminutive frame (of  5' 7", to be exact) does not make him much of a physical presence amid the requisite macho posturing. He's also offered scant decent lines. 

Which brings me to the script. Creevy has a knack for dialogue and it's displayed brilliantly, as in Shifty, when dealing with the minutiae of a situation. Unfortunately, the director seems to have got too bogged down in plot. The only sparky moments (and there are a few of them) occur when he's not forced to push the action forward. Subsequently, the whole thing descends into cliché. Instead of aping Hollywood action mores I wish Creevy had embraced the Britishness a little more. British cinema often fails when it is consciously aiming for appeal across borders. The success of say, Sexy Beast and The Long Good Friday can be put down to their intrinsic Britishness. Due to budgetary constraints British action cinema is relatively rare. What such films lack in spectacle can be compensated for by characterisation and dialogue. And this would have benefited by more focus on both. McAvoy's character is painfully two-dimensional and for an obvious lover of action cinema Creevy needs to give the words a lot more well, punch.

This is not, by any means, a bad film. As stated above, there are elements to savour. There are a few good laughs too. There's also an inspired set-piece which takes place in a twee grandmother's living room. (One of the rare occasions that Creevy embraces the film's parochial nature.)

The director does achieve some great-looking visuals. London has rarely looked as sexy and he makes the city itself feel like an international player. Working with a pretty modest budget for the genre - £5.5 million - Creevy's achieved impressive production value and you can't help but admire his ambition. So I wish the film well and he's certainly a director to keep an eye on.